Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/208042.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Piers_Polkiss/Dudley_Dursley
  Character:
      Dudley_Dursley, Piers_Polkiss
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-06-04 Words: 16174
****** A Smeltings Tradition ******
by songquake
Summary
     Piers has been booted from Smeltings; Dudley knows his parents don't
     actually care enough to raise him. In the summer after their Fifth
     Year at Smeltings, how will their symbiosis evolve?
Notes
     Written for Round Two of hp_emofest on LiveJournal. This was also my
     first major work in the HP fandom, and originally posted in January
     2010.
     Thank you to my betas: tania_sings, reiko_katsura, A and J (who are
     non-fandom editors).

                             A Smeltings Tradition
 
Monday, 9 August, 1995
It had been four days since Piers had seen Dudley, four days since they had
left the play park for home as the clouds rolled in. Come to think of it, he
hadn't seen that toe-rag of a cousin of Big D's, either; it was as if they'd
both disappeared entirely that evening. It was annoying, not disconcerting,
damn it. He wasn't upset so much as irritated that his mate wasn't around to
help with his brilliant plan.
Piers sighed in exasperation as he left his house on Pansy Lane.
Plans were good for maintaining their sense of...purpose. Their little gang had
built quite the reputation for themselves out in Little Whinging. Since that
time in primary school when they had got ice cream money off of ten kids in a
single afternoon, threatening them with certain pain if they snitched, the play
park and most of the streets were theirs. The kids who hadn't been victimised
stood in awe of them, and were easy to talk into doing favours for the gang.
Extra sweets, their parents' cigarettes, anything they wanted, they could get
off of these brats. Well, except for the hash, which this summer had become a
staple in their regimen. That was a revelation; it made the world more
agreeable all around. It even made Potter seem like less of a freak, like his
madness (and there is madness there, Piers can tell) and his weird behaviours
were understandable.
During most of the year, Dudley would be off at Smeltings, the private school
Piers had also attended, working on his boxing and growing bigger and scarier.
But not smarter; they both knew that Piers was the brains of their operation,
despite the fact that he would now be going to the local comprehensive school
and was unlikely to attempt anything beyond the required GCSE's. He had started
at Smeltings at the same time as Dud, but got caught, as they say,
'fraternising' with a lower form. Not only had the school decided he was a
terrible influence, but his parents had decided that they didn't need to spend
what little money they had left after drinking for a faggot's education. He
wasn't bound for uni, though he might have found a way to put his brains to use
there. He would just have to do well enough either being the brains behind
their local dealer or proving himself at the local auto shop and eventually
running that. The latter was his only plan that could garner him even marginal
legitimacy in their fussy village. Banking was out, since he had a well-
deserved reputation as a young criminal, and even working the till at Tesco's
was likely out of reach. But this was an issue that could wait until after the
summer holiday. Right now, Piers was focused on his immediate needs.
Dud's disappearance did nothing to further these more short-term plans. They'd
recently hooked up with a small-time pot distributor, and between the skills of
the two of them, were getting a pretty sweet deal for their marijuana. Piers'
latest idea was for him and Big D to meet their dealer in the park, smoke up
with him, pay him for a small bag of the stuff, and have Dudley knock him into
the pond. Then Piers would drop his hand into the dealer's rucksack and get a
whole bunch more while Dud helped him out of the water and apologised for being
a clumsy oaf. Dudley wasn't likely to get excited about that part, but he liked
the weed as much as anybody, and really, he had the easy job here. And then
they could go to one of their houses and laugh about how easy it was to get one
over on the dealer in question.
In the relationship between the two bullies, Piers was the instigator, the
bloke who had for years overridden Dudley's conscience while building up his
confidence, the one who had kept the group of them slippery enough to evade
detection by the cops and their parents. Dud's strength and sheer mass,
however, was essential for the ongoing dealings with the stoner who sold to
them. It also played a major role in securing Piers' place with the rest of
their gang, and he knew it. Piers may have been crafty, but the other boys in
their crew didn't respect brains so much as brawn, and he was admittedly on the
small side. He was tall, but bony-thin, with olive skin and wiry muscles that
most of the gang derided as not nearly big enough underneath it. But when they
were kids, Piers and Dudley had worked out what Piers liked to think of as a
mutually beneficial relationship: with Dudley protected Piers and Piers helped
Dud with his homework. The two of them went together, neither of them special
enough on his own to coalesce their band of juvenile delinquents. But as a
team... as a team they couldn't be beat. Literally.
Each knew enough about the other that they could be bound in blackmail for the
rest of their adolescent lives, and perhaps their adult lives, too. Piers knew
that while Dudley milked his parents for all the goodies he could, he couldn't
respect them. Dudley knew about Piers' fights with his drunken father, which is
the excuse Piers used for why he'd be going back to the local school. Piers
knew that Dudley had enormous trouble reading, and only passed his exams when
Piers had helped him with their reading assignments; Dudley knew that Piers was
a closeted swot. Among other things, Piers thought, grateful that Dudley didn't
know the rest. His blood had run a bit cold when Big D had mocked the toe-rag
for crying about some boy in his sleep. No, the relationship that the two
blokes had was not one based in trust or fondness, but on the camaraderie that
grew over the course of a lifetime of hanging out. They were friends out of
habit, because their mothers took tea together once a week and they were in the
same class at school. Friends because as boys they became the meanest kids in
their level, and the sneakiest. With Dudley fat and Piers swottish (and queer,
his mind helpfully added), it was bully or be bullied.
In any case, it was both disturbing and problematic that Dudley and Potter had
disappeared at the same time -- in summer, no less. Summer was to be a time of
relaxing, of smoking up after a good fight. Now both the fight and the reward
were out of reach.
With a nod of his head, Piers approached the front door of Number Four, Privet
Drive. He rang the bell.
“Go away!” sounded the voice of Mr. Dursley from behind the door.
“Mr Dursley, it's Piers Polkiss! Is Dudley home?” Piers was treading on thin
ice; Vernon Dursley was well-known in Little Whinging for his violent temper
and irrational public outbursts. But Piers also knew that ‘keeping up
appearances’ was the cardinal rule in the Dursley household. Mr Dursley would
not dare to explode on the front steps, nor would his wife allow him to let the
neighbours witness a shouting match through the front door, especially with
‘Little Diddybuns' best friend,’ as Petunia tended to call Piers.
As expected, the door opened. “Well, come in, boy! Don't stand there letting
out our nice central air!”
“Yes, sir,” Piers said. “Is Dudley here? I was just stopping by because I
haven't seen him in a few days, and we had a plan to work out together so he'd
still be in shape when it was time to go back to Smeltings.” Solid gold, Piers
thought. There's nothing that makes these jokes for parents more proud than the
thought of their son as a boxing star, and ‘having tea’ or ‘working out’ with
the son of the Garden Club's social chair.
“Oh, Piers! It's good of you to come by!” Mrs Dursley exclaimed. “I'm so sorry
for any worry – Duddykins caught quite a chill out in that storm a few days ago
and has been in bed ever since.. I've been making sure that he's resting and
eating well so he'll be his old self in no time. But it is still terribly rude
for Dudley not to have called you. On behalf of my son, I apologise.” By the
end of her speech, Mrs Dursley seemed to have calmed down a bit.
That woman is always a little too high strung, Piers noted. It's a wonder
anyone can tolerate an entire conversation with her. I can see why Dudley wants
to get out so much. “May I go up and visit him?”
===============================================================================
Dudley had heard the overly-loud ding-dong of his parents' newly installed
electric doorbell (“Bigger is always better, right, Dudders?” his father had
boomed), and his father's nasty retort. Nobody unexpectedly rang their doorbell
except salesmen, and his father had absolutely no patience for them. He curled
even further under the blankets, trying to let their warmth comfort him after
such a shocking, eye-opening, and confusing few days. His blankets were a safe
place, not like that dark alley. They were soft and solid, and dry and warm. He
wished that his parents would turn down the air conditioning; the sense that
he'd never be warm or happy again hadn't quite left.
When he and Potter were in that narrow passage together, he thought he was
going to die. It didn't help that when his cousin had mentioned that magic had
made him feel that way, his father had exploded and his mother had gone white
as an institutional sheet (like the ones at Smeltings, always bleached to
within an inch of their life). His dad thought he'd needed medical attention,
but his mum had insisted that the only way to help him was to take him to one
of their hospitals, and everyone agreed that was not an acceptable option.
Well, his parents agreed, at least. So staying in the house it was. Potter had
been locked in Dudley's second bedroom for days (which had made Dudley feel
safer – at least he couldn't point that wand at him if he was locked up), but
had disappeared the night before while his parents were out and Dud had been in
his bed with the headphones on. Good riddance, Dudley thought, though there was
something about Potter's disappearance that made him nervous, too. In any case,
Dudley wanted nothing to do with going outside – who knew when it would get
cold again or the snakes might attack? He knew that the giant boa constrictor
from the zoo had found its way to the alley just because it didn't like him...
or maybe his cousin had called it again... it hissed in his ear....he'd never
be safe, or happy, or warm if it found him...
Yes. Bed was the warm, dry place where he could just reach into the Milk Tray
box his mum had bought him and grab a sweetie any time he felt he needed it.
Chocolate was almost as comforting as his blanket, and Mum would bin the
wrappers for him tomorrow.
Pounding on the stairs startled Dudley out of his reverie. Quickly, he sat up,
clutching his blanket to him. When there was a second pounding on his door, he
relaxed. Dudley recognised the pattern of knocks that Piers always used.
“C'min, Piers,” Dudley called, consciously loosening his hold on the covers.
“All right, mate?”
“Shite, Dud,” Piers said as he closed the door behind him and ignored the
greeting. “Your mum said you'd been ill, but I've never seen you like this
before.” To someone who didn't know of Dudley's great strength and bravery, it
would look as if the large boy were cowering. “And what's with the chocolate? I
thought you'd given that stuff up except for when we smoked.” Nothing was off-
limits when Dud got the munchies, no matter what rules his boxing coach had put
in place.
“Er, yeah. Not well at all. Pretty sick after that storm. Fever, you know. And
chills. And in the middle of all that, Potty Potter had to go ranting with his
crazy-talk again... Mum's been hovering over me so much that I'm not sure I'll
ever be allowed outside unchaperoned again.”
“A bit extreme, eh?”
Dudley rolled his eyes. “You know how she gets, calling me all those ridiculous
names and insisting that I stay in bed like her good ickle Duddlywump and eat
lots of chicken soup so I can grow big and strong. And Dad comes up and shouts
about getting out of bed and showing the germs who's boss, and then they fight,
Dad goes out drinking with your dad, and Mum buys me another sack of chocolates
to make me feel better.” He didn't mention how the chocolate seemed to be the
only thing that could keep the chill and panic away.
“Where is Potty anyway? Is he sicking up in your second bedroom as well?”
“I haven't been sicking up! Tell the truth, I don't feel that bad, but Mum'll
keep buying me whatever I want as long as I look pathetic enough. And to tell
another truth, Potty's done a runner. Again.”
Piers rolled his eyes. Potty was predictable. “Where does he go, anyway? Isn't
this the fourth summer in a row he's disappeared? Doesn't he know that he's
supposed to stick around for our entertainment?”
“Yeah, well, a letter came threatening to kick him out of his school. Can you
believe that? Getting booted from school? And from St Brutus' of all places?”
Dudley was already starting to feel normal: less frightened, more masculine and
capable. Mostly of beating up anyone or any...thing that came across his path.
Piers, on the other hand, had started to look a bit discomfited, as if he were
hiding something. Dudley saw him school his face into a smirk when Piers
noticed him watching. “Yeah,” he said instead. “Who'd think one could get
kicked out of a school for the incurably criminal? What'd he do?”
Dudley got quiet. How to handle this? Because he knew that Potter had gotten
the threat for using that weird magic – the magic that always got Mum and Dad
so upset – to protect him. But Piers couldn't know about that. Not at all.
“Er...dunno, mate. Must be pretty bad. You'd think that there would just be
disciplines for the incurably criminal kids who broke their schools rules –
beatings and whatnot.” Though Dudley didn't want to think of what sort of
punishments would await a wizard who broke the rules – surely something horrid.
He still remembered with a twinge in his bottom that tail that the giant smelly
man had given him when he'd first taken Harry away. If that was a punishment
for wanting some cake, he'd hate to think of what would happen to a kid who was
caught out after hours, or missed his assignments. Lost in thought, he realised
that the discipline at Smeltings was really quite the best one could get. It
changed his direction when he got caught – he'd certainly not do the things
he'd been caned for again in plain sight.
Interrupting Dudley's brooding, Piers added, “Their teachers and matrons, or
whoever, they must need a holiday from all that criminality.”
“Guess.”
“You know, it always surprised me that it was Potter who got sent to St
Brutus'. You know, rather than us. He was always just a little twat who didn't
even fight back when we went Harry Hunting. Didn't figure him to be a bad boy
at all.”
“Well, you know it didn't come from our primary school, even though I don't
think he was ever caught up in his lessons. They thought he was slow and maybe
truant, but not a bad seed.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It was my dad, mostly. Got sick of Potter talking back, pilfering stuff,
damaging the house, and sneaking around. I guess he probably got the school to
say the bloke was antisocial, too, since he never had any friends.”
“Shite, Dud.” Piers paused thoughtfully. “I'd always been a little jealous, you
know. Not that I really wanted to go to St Brutus', but it felt like he was
showing us up, getting sent there when we were the ones who beat everyone up.”
“Not funny, Piers.” Somehow, Dudley was tired of this conversation.
===============================================================================
Thursday, 12 August, 1995
Another three days, the sun was shining with irritating cheer, and Dudley at
long last rang Piers. “Mum's finally convinced I can leave the house without
dying. Anything going on?”
Ten minutes later, he was outside the Polkiss house at Number Eleven, Pansy
Lane. He still thought it funny that Piers the Pansy (and Piers thought he
didn't know) lived on a street named for him. Not to mention that the outside
of the Polkiss house was even prissier than his mum's, with every blade of
grass and petal of the garden carefully groomed. But Dudley couldn't risk
losing the brains of his operation, so he had quit pursuing that line of
mockery by the time they were ten.
“Dud, you're porking up again. You'd better get back to working out, or Coach
Brewster is gonna have your arse.” Also, you're hotter and manlier when you've
got more muscle than fat, Piers mused, but he'd never say that – not unless he
wanted a pounding of the fisticuffs variety. No way he was gonna let Dudley
think he was perving on him, even if sometimes he did. Especially when Big D
let Piers order him around...there was something peculiarly arousing about
having control over someone bigger than him. Which was what Piers planned to do
today.
“And you've still got bony legs and beady eyes. We'll just have to cope,”
Dudley retorted.
He's getting better at the comeback, Piers thought. It was strangely
attractive. Out loud, he announced: “Today we're gonna score some pot off of
Carmichael. And more than we have money to pay for,” he added, when it looked
like Dudley was going to object. “I already have about fifteen quid. That
should buy a nice bit for us.”
“And the rest? The 'more than we can pay for'?”
“That, my friend, is where teamwork comes in.” Piers explained his dump-the-
dealer-in-the-pond plan. Dudley looked less than impressed.
“You mean I get to be the klutz. Again,” he said flatly.
“Of course! You know I'm not strong enough to knock him over. Not big enough to
make it look like an accident, either.”
“Yeah, and once he figures out what we've done, where'll we get our weed from?”
Since when does Dudley...? This could be a mess, both in the short term (since
unquestioning loyalty and willingness was necessary for this particular scheme)
and in the longer term (since Piers suspected Dudley had only ever kept him
around for his brains and strategic way of looking at the world).
Piers deflated a little. “I hadn't thought that far,” he conceded. “When did
you start planning ahead?”
“That's the shite that keeps me from decking my parents. I don't want the
supply to run dry. 'Sides, it's only a few more weeks, and then we're back at
Smeltings and the joys of the student trade. Last thing we need is for us to
get blacklisted from the pot market in Little Whinging next summer.”
“Right,” Piers nodded. “Then let's just go meet Car and pay what we've got for
what we can get.”
“I can still knock him into the pond, right?”
“Yeah, just make sure he doesn't have the weed in his clothes. Would be a shame
to waste it. Listen, we're almost late to meet him already. Let's take that
short-cut we found the other week.”
Dudley took a deep breath. “Got it.” Piers meant the alley; Dudley hoped that
whatever had attacked him and his cousin there was well and truly gone.
The two kept a brisk pace going down Pansy Lane, Wisteria Walk, and to the
small alley Dudley had last seen when the cold and despair had soaked him. He
stopped in his tracks. A man would be insane to risk that again.
“Er, I know we're late, but Car will wait for us. Let's walk around,” the
normally macho boy said.
Piers' response was incredulous. “Why the bloody fuck would we do that?”
Dudley's pallor was washed away in his embarrassment. What could he say that
would both get him out of walking the alley and manage to save him face?
There was nothing for it. “Er, it's rather humiliating. Do you need to know?”
“Well, I'd think that a little bit of humiliation is the price you'll have to
pay for being a big girl's blouse and holding us up,” Piers sneered.
Dud took a slow breath, calming himself while the lie took shape in his brain.
“It's just that I wasn't really sick from the rain, is all. I, er, slipped in
the alley and knocked my head. Potter practically had to carry me home. And it
looks like the kind of alleyway that's never completely dry.”
“You serious, mate?” When Dudley grimaced and nodded, Piers continued. “I have
no bloody clue how you can be so light on your feet in the ring and such a
klutz out of it. It's like your fat arse needs the floor to be padded or
something.” Piers watched his friend grow even redder about the face. If only
he could make that face blush for other reasons.... No, keep it under control,
Polkiss. You're one up on him now; don't waste it.
“Well, you've heard it. I know I'm a complete berk for not wanting to do it,
but could you just humour me?”
The mixed emotions of humiliation and anxiety on Dudley's face were strangely
endearing. “Whatever,” said Piers, making a big show of rolling his eyes.
===============================================================================
Even as he took his first hit from the bowl, Dudley felt some of the tension
leave his shoulders and mind. It was amazing what just the expectation of
relief could do.
The two boys were camped out in Piers' attic bedroom as usual. Piers had moved
up there a couple of summers ago; with him spending most of the year at school,
his parents wanted to turn his bedroom into a study for his father. What his
father had to ‘study’ was beyond the ken of both young men (they suspected
pornography and whiskey), but Piers had decided to take full advantage of the
extra privacy his own floor afforded him.
Piers had a stereo and TV/VCR, of course, and many tapes and CD's to entertain
himself and any friends. His most recent acquisition had been a Playstation,
and he and his friends (usually Dudley, but sometimes Malcolm or Gordon) could
spend many stoned hours playing Mega Mutilation or Star Fighter, or even Tetris
when they had smoked themselves silly enough. An afternoon of smoking meant an
afternoon of lazing about, with snacks galore and mindless entertainment.
Plus, of course, the meandering discussions, from why someone like Kurt Cobain
would kill himself to how many licks it would take to reach the Tootsie Roll
Centre of a Tootsie Pop. And sometimes, when it was just Dudley and Piers,
they'd get really stoned, pilfer some whiskey or gin, and forget to keep their
game faces on with one another.
This afternoon, the attic was stifling and their only relief was the fan
blowing their smoke out the small window by Piers' bed. Having decided it was
too hot for hunting children or even playing video games, the teens were lying
sideways on the bed, their legs dangling off. It was the type of afternoon most
conducive to dangerous conversation.
“Ta,” said Piers as he took the bowl back. He drew a long toke and held it for
a few seconds before exhaling. “Some good stuff, that. All right, Duds?”
Dudley looked over at Piers, slowly pulling himself from his train of thought.
“All right,” he responded. Even though he wasn't, quite. “Piers, you can't
convince your dad that it's worth it to drink less so that you can come back to
Smeltings? Only, I have no idea how I'll survive lessons without you there to
help me.”
“Hey, no getting soft on me, mate. You'll find some other swot to help you in
exchange for protection, I'm sure.”
“I don't fancy having to chat someone up about it,” Dudley muttered. “Besides,
you're clever, can't you find a scholarship of some sort?”
Piers was caught, but he found he didn't much care. Dudley was right; without
help, he'd likely get sent home for not meeting Smeltings' academic standards.
“Truth is, it's not the money, Dudders.”
“Then why –”
“I got caught fagging a firstie at the end of term. The headmaster thought I
had taken the tradition a bit too literally.”
“Blimey, mate. What did you do?”
“Pass the bowl again, will you?” Piers took another deep draw, gathering his
courage to tell the truth. “Well, not that it matters much, but you know that
brat Mulrooney?”
“Er, I think so,” Dudley said, confused.
“Well, he cheeked me, so I knocked his books out of his hands.”
“That doesn't sound like much – not a huge offence that would get you anything
more than maybe a detention.”
“Well, it's what happened after...” Piers trailed off. “I took the opportunity
to relieve him of his maths assignment. And the little sod started whinging,
and looked fit to get a strop on. So I offered him a deal.”
“Oh, Piers, don't tell me you were caught... what's it called when you make
somebody bribe you?”
“Extorting.”
“Yeah. You were caught extorting a firstie?”
“Well, not that, at least not yet. I was caught getting sucked off by a
firstie. That was the deal we made.” Piers kept looking at the ceiling, not
wanting Dudley to see his face yet. He knew he was blushing at the memory, not
just from the part where they got caught (which was pretty embarrassing; who
knew that he'd end up being so loud when he came?), or even the slick,
luxurious feel of those lips wrapped around his cock, the tongue almost
involuntarily moving up and down the vein on the underside. He was blushing,
getting turned on, because of the power he'd felt at that moment – that he
could get Mulrooney to do whatever he wanted, that he could grab the boy's hair
and move his head back and forth so that it felt even better. And now there was
no need for his best mate to see that.
“Shite.” Dudley whispered. “Had you gotten away with that kind of stuff
before?”
“What, you're not revolted?” Piers said. “And no, this was the first time I'd
tried that.”
“Revolted that you're a faggot after all, or that you extorted a boy for a
blowjob?” Dudley said, eyes narrowing as he turned his head toward his friend.
“The first.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes, Piers. Just because I stopped taking the mickey about it
doesn't mean I didn't know. You may be clever, but even you can't seem to stop
looking at the people you find attractive. Who happen to be blokes.” And
sometimes even me.
“And the other?”
“Is pretty low, even for you.” Somehow, the pleasant haze had faded a bit.
Dudley took another hit, and passed the bowl.
Piers coughed, then tried to chuckle. “I never took you as the type to be more
put off by the bullying than the poofterism, mate.”
“And I never took you to be that kind of prat.” Dudley stood, swaying a little
from the head-rush.
“Dud? Where you going, mate?”
“Home. Don't need this to ruin a perfectly good high.” Dudley let the bedroom
door bang shut behind him, and called his goodbye to Mrs Polkiss as he saw
himself out.
===============================================================================
He really should have taken another hit before leaving. And played another
round of Mega Mutilation, since that, at least, would have filled his mind
temporarily with something else.
Dudley was having trouble holding onto his mellow after Piers' revelation. No
longer irritatingly cheerful, the sun now beat down upon him like a
searchlight.
Fuck, he thought.
In a manner of speaking, their conversation had crystallised for Dudley
everything he disliked about his world, his friends, and himself. We're a bunch
of wankers. No, worse. We're the biggest arseholes in Little Whinging, and
apparently the biggest ones at Smeltings, too.
He'd known, of course, but he hadn't realised. He knew that younger kids didn't
do stuff like bring him sweets and carry his homework, that blokes his age
didn't do his homework for him because they liked him. They did it because they
were terrified. Because even if he weren't the Junior Heavyweight Boxing
Champion, he also had backup in the form of other blokes like Piers, Malcolm
and Gordon. Each was ruthless. Together, they were almost a terrorist
organisation
And he was pretty sure that the guys in his gang... he was pretty sure that
they didn't even like each other. They'd banded together as lads for strength,
each knowing his own weaknesses could get his arse kicked by older kids in
primary school. And they worked together like friends, he thought. But it
wasn't like they had bloody heart-to-hearts. More like bloody hands-to-noses,
if they disagreed.
They were uncivilised. Piers' story about the firstie and the blow job was just
a different sort of bullying.
Potter had said that what had happened to him in the alley was that the
demented cold wind was trying to suck out his soul. Well, he might have been
safe, then, even if Potter hadn't intervened. Living this life without a soul
would probably be even easier.
And with that thought, Dudley Dursley came to a realisation.
He wanted to reform himself. He did not want to be incurably criminal, knowing
that he belonged at St Brutus' rather than Smeltings. And he would need help to
change.
===============================================================================
“I don't want to be an arsehole any more.”
“Well, bully for you,” retorted Piers. “Are you going to tell me why you bolted
out of here, and why the fuck you came back?”
Dudley saw how the carpet had been singed where they had dropped ashes over the
months. He looked out the window at the sun, lower in the sky and somewhat
softer, encouraging. He stared at Piers' dresser, and saw the first aid
supplies they had used to patch each other up this summer, taping ribs or
hands, disinfecting and covering small cuts, those Steri-Strips and that hippie
stuff that helped you heal that Gordon had nicked from his mum, who was a
nurse. Piers had the most privacy, so his room had been their urgent care
centre. Realising that he was stalling, Dudley looked up, directly at his
comrade-in-arms.
“I came back because I need your help. Even though the reason I ran is 'cause I
figured out what kind of an arsehole you were.”
“What, you find it sickening that I'm queer?”
“Wha- No!” Dudley warmed, trying not to think of how his denims had tightened
while Piers was describing the situation. “I find it sickening that you're a
fucking child molester.”
Piers was silent at that. Examined his toenails. That one on the end looked to
be turning yellow; maybe kind of cool, but mostly gross. He hoped it would fall
off soon. He preferred to think about that than about what Dudley had just
accused him of being.
Also the fact that Dud seemed thoroughly unsurprised that he liked boys.
“Well, what sort of 'help' do you want?” His voice started to grow louder. “And
since you just accused me of being the sickest kind of criminal, why the bloody
fuck – no pun intended, of course – but why the bloody fuck should I even
consider doing you a fucking favour?” Piers was nearly spitting by the time he
finished. He was even more incensed since Dudley appeared unperturbed by the
outburst.
“Let's see,” Dudley paused, tapping his chin. “Well, I could tell you that
you'll help me because I could go out and spread the word that not only are you
a poof, but that you're a poof who has a thing for the wee ones. But I'd like
to think that you'll help me just because you would think it fun.”
Fun? That caught Piers' attention. “Details. Mind, I'm not agreeing to
anything.”
“Right. Okay,” Dudley took a deep breath, finding it hard to believe that he
was going to say this. “I don't want to be an arsehole any more, but I can't
just stop.”
“Why not?”
“Please. You've known me how long? Have I ever shown any sort of...,” Dudley
paused, searching for the right word, “restraint in anything?”
“You're good at restraining others,” Piers pointed out.
Dudley drew a tight breath and continued. “That's not the point, you berk. The
point is that I get pissed off and I don't even think of controlling myself. I
just hit first, and forget about it later.”
“Okay, so what is it you want?”
“I need someone to keep me in line. Make me follow rules. Punish me if I don't.
Discipline. I need it, and I think you wouldn't mind being in charge of it.”
“I'm not your fucking parent, Dud.”
|Dudley snorted derisively. “You think I'd ask my parents to help me reform?
Have you met my parents? Mum would be all, 'Duddlebuns, you're perfect! Would
you like some pudding?' and my father would likely do that thing he likes to
think of as lecturing where he drones on and on but is loud about it. He would
be telling me that the only way people will respect me is if they’re afraid of
me, and why was he paying for boxing gloves if I wasn't going to employ my
training to make my point when it really counts.” He took a breath. “They're
terrible people, and terrible parents. How do you think I ended up this way?
You couldn't have been taking all the credit.”
Piers nodded. That was a point. “So you want me to make up a list of rules for
you to follow to become a fucking perfect gentleman, and punish you when you
fail to follow them.”
“In a nutshell.”
“And you think I'll enjoy it because...”
“Because I know that you like to be in charge, and like it even more when you
get to be in charge and humiliate someone at the same time.”
“Point. Why do you think this'll work?”
“Because when Headmaster Crowe punished me, I thought twice before making the
same infraction. He'd lecture, yes, but he was convinced that the only thing
that could 'reform' my behaviour and remind me of my place was a good paddling
or caning. I certainly learnt not to break rules and get caught.”
“And who will report you to me?”
“Er... Well, I was thinking that since we end up hanging together a lot, you'd
probably be witness to most of my infractions. Any others... I'd report?” He
started as Piers snorted.
“Oh, yes. Self-tattling sounds like such a good idea. Like you'd be telling me
the truth.”
“I'm the one who's trying to learn to change. Maybe honesty is something that
should be a rule. You've seen me lie enough. You've caught me at it before.”
This was true; as schoolboys, Piers had an uncanny way of knowing when Dudley
was hiding some of the loot from their bullying.
“I need to think about it. My ego is still smarting from that terribly unfair
accusation you levelled upon me before.”
“Unfair, my arse.”
“If we do this, cheeking me will definitely get you a demerit.”
 
===============================================================================
Friday, 13 August, 1995
“You will not hold me accountable to these rules, Dudley.
"You will not cheek me or anyone who outranks you, including the other members
of our gang, your parents, any other adults, and especially teachers.
"You will address me as 'Sir' or 'Teacher' when alone with me, as I am your
master teacher. Similarly, all adults will be referred to as 'Sir' or “Ma'am,'
unless there is a specific title such as 'Reverend' or 'Professor' that is more
appropriate.
"You may correct youngsters for cheeking by verbally informing them about the
rules of etiquette – you'll be reading An Etiquette Manual for Men, by the way
– but you may not touch them, or raise your voice.
"You will use words like please, thank you, you are welcome, and proper
salutations. You will close your mouth while chewing, and use proper table
manners.
"You will not lie, to me or anyone else.
"You will offer to help your parents with work in the house, and offer
assistance to anyone you notice may need it.
"You will improve your speech, removing vulgarity. You will begin by refraining
from using foul language when addressing or describing other people, and
eventually remove it from your vocabulary altogether.
"You will complete your assignments on time, whether for me, your parents, or
your tutors and professors. If you can't do it by yourself, you will ask for
help.
 
"You will not cheat in school, in games, or in any other way.
"You will treat women with courtesy. You will treat children and animals with
kindness.
"If you find your temper rising, you will excuse yourself and only return when
your feelings are under control. You will make apologies for having to leave.
You will not taunt anyone, and you will treat everyone with respect, including
that derelict cousin of yours.
"When you're wrong, you will make no excuses, but apologise and accept the
repercussions from those you have wronged as well as from me. You may ask
questions about what the correct response should have been if you cannot figure
it out yourself.
“I will note any infractions I witness, but I shall require you to carry three
objects at all times: a notepad and Biro so that you can list all your
infractions including date, time, and location, and your Smeltings stick, both
as a reminder of the honourable institution which you purport to represent, and
to remind you of what may come should you fall short of meeting the
expectations set forth. Do you understand and agree, Dudley?”
Dudley gulped. He had not expected Piers to take it so seriously, nor to have
enumerated so many rules along with reading assignments. But he nodded. “Yes,
Sir.”
Piers handed Dudley a written copy of the rules. “Good man. This begins now. We
shall meet in three days to evaluate your progress.”
===============================================================================
Monday, 16 August, 1995
The sun was shining again as Dudley approached the Polkiss residence and
climbed the front steps. "I asked Piers to do this," he muttered to himself. I
asked him because he's the only one vicious enough to whip me into shape. This
is correction that I need. He took a moment to wipe his hands -- individually,
as he had to use one to hold his Smeltings Stick -- on the front of his knee-
high khakis. His notebook and Biro sat in his left back pocket as he gave
himself one last once-over to make sure his shirt was buttoned and tucked in,
that his laces were properly tied, and his back straight.
There was nothing for it: he could not procrastinate any longer, not if he
didn't want to be late. Dudley rang the doorbell. Mrs Polkiss answered the
door.
"Hullo, Mrs. Polkiss. How are you, today?"
"Very well, Dudley. And how are you?"
"I'm also well, ma'am."
"My, Dudley. You certainly are polite today."
"I'm just trying to practice good manners, ma'am. I'm trying to become a
respectable member of society."
"And a wonderful goal that is. Would that all the young men might take their
example from you."
"Er, yes, Ma'am," Dudley conceded, blushing a bit. "I'm here to visit Piers; I
believe he's expecting me. Is he available?" Dudley asked, surprised that he
wanted to escape this bizarre universe of stilted manners for the painful but
direct communication he'd have with his Teacher.
"Of course he is, Dudley," Mrs. Polkiss said. "He's right up--"
"Here, Mum," Piers' voice came from the landing between the first and second
floors. "You may come on up, Dudley."
"Thank you, Mrs. Polkiss," Dudley remembered to say as he turned to climb the
stairs.
"You're very welcome, Dudley," Mrs. Polkiss said, beaming.
===============================================================================
"Stand in the centre of the carpet, and hand me your notebook and Smeltings
Stick," Piers said calmly as Dudley followed him into his bedroom. Taking the
items, Piers added, "Hands behind your back, and remain quiet while I look over
your infractions."
He smirked as Dudley complied, then turned around and sat at his desk, facing
away from Dudley as he started paging through the notebook.
Day 1: 13 August -- Sometimes forgot to close my mouth while chewing. Correkted
when I rememberd, but I forgot 4 times. Forgot to ask Mum weather she needed
help before or after dinner. Then I said shit when I realised my mistake. Did
not say thank you when Mum served the meal.
Day 2: 14 August -- Let Mum both make and clean up after breakfast, and winjed
(as yushy always) about my quarter grapefruit. Damn diet, again. I just swore
in my log, that's got to be another dimerit. Did not call Mum and Dad "sir" or
"ma'am," also Mrs. Figg. Also did not offer to help Mrs. Figg across the
street, dispite her full arms. That woman realy just needs to get a trolley for
her grosseries. Told Mum I was taking tea at Malcolm's, when I was really at
the play park with the gang. And aparrently taking the mickey out of a friend
counts as "cheeking," because when I told Malcolm that his new haircut made him
look like a cancer patient, Piers sent me a really mean look. Opened my mouth
while eating 8 times today...
The next day's entries were much the same, as was that morning's, though Dudley
had apparently gotten better at asking his mother whether she would like help
cleaning up after meals. But the lying about teatime, the horrendous table
manners, and occasional swear words popped up daily. Not to mention Dudley's
dreadful spelling, but Piers should have expected that.
"This is a good start," Piers said, "but not good enough. It seems that merely
recording your infractions is not preventing you from repeating them. What do
we have.... here: twenty instances of chewing with your mouth open, one
instance of unacceptable grooming, six instances of not offering to help your
mother, one instance of failing to help an elderly neighbour, forgetting your
spoken manners eight times, cheeking a superior, three instances of lying, and
ten instances of swearing, but as they were not swears directed at people,
you're off the hook for them. And then there was your greeting of my mother."
"Sir? I thought I was very polite with your mother," Dudley protested.
"You think that 'hullo' is a formal enough greeting for one of your elders?"
"No, sir," Dudley said, his head cast down.
Piers looked at his student. "And, well, there were many rules. So I am going
to ask you some questions, just to make sure that we have a full account."
"Yes, sir."
"Have you taunted any children?"
"No, sir."
"Have you finished reading An Etiquette Manual for Men?"
Dudley looked confused. "No, sir."
"And why is that?"
"I haven't got a copy yet, sir."
"Unacceptable. You will acquire a copy of the Manual as soon as possible, and
have it read within the next week. It's short; you can work on it every day or
come to me for help." Piers paused a bit before his next question. "Did you
place a serviette on your lap for every meal?"
"No, sir," said Dudley. This time he was cringing. Good, thought Piers. Let him
fear the trouble he's got himself into here. "My mother has decided that except
for fancy meals, we should use paper serviettes, sir."
"A paper serviette can lie on your lap as well as a linen one. A gentleman will
always eat properly, even if the facilities do not seem to require it." Piers
had been practising his snooty voice, and felt he was using it to excellent
effect.
"Yes, sir," Dudley said softly.
"So, let's see. That's forty-five demerits for the first three days. Not good
for you, Dudley."
"No, sir," Dudley said glumly. He wondered what punishment was in store.
"Now, normally, each demerit would earn you a corresponding strike. But since
this is your first correction session since the term ended, I don't expect that
you are able to manage that. Therefore, I will be giving you only a third of
the punishment that you deserve. How's that sound?"
"Er...thank you, sir?"
"You're damn right you better thank me. As time goes on, you will feel the pain
for each time you overlook the rules." Piers took the Smeltings Stick off his
desk and showed it to Dudley. "This is to be the instrument of your correction.
The fact that it is what I will use to, well, 'drive home the point' is the
reason you carry it at all times. It is both to remind you of your
responsibilities as you try to become respectable, and to be available to me
should I see you in need of immediate correction at any time."
Dudley winced, and drew in a steadying breath. "Yes, sir. I carry it with me as
a reminder and as the instrument of my education."
"Yes. Another reminder is to apologise to anyone whom you disrespect as soon as
you can. So you will be making your apologies to my mother as you leave. Got
it?"
"Yes, I understand, sir."
"Good man. Now it is time for that correction to begin. Take down your trousers
and pants, and get down on all fours." Piers looked forward to watching the
stick hit Dudley's huge arse, turning the skin white before fading into red,
red lines.
===============================================================================
Dudley felt his face turning red. He wants to hit my naked arse, he thought. I
suppose I ought to have expected that. He unbuckled his belt, almost wishing he
were going to be hit with it instead. The Smeltings Stick just looked
so...hard, and mean. Its knobs would mean that his arse would be marked in that
bumpy pattern. And that the pain, the bruises would be uneven. Still, he pulled
down his trousers and pants; he might as well get it over with.
Once Dudley was on his hands and knees, he heard Piers murmur "Good," and then
a whoosh as the Smeltings Stick cut through the air--
"Ahhhh!" Dudley cried out.
Piers paused. "You can't take your stripes like a man yet, can you." He sighed
as he moved to the stereo and turned up the volume on his Pearl Jam CD. "We
can't have my mum hearing you, can we?"
Dudley stilled. "No, sir. And I'll try to do better, sir."
"You better. Now that was one strike. I want you to count the rest. Out loud."
He swung the Smeltings Stick again.
"Two!" Dudley said loudly. Clearly, the Stick brought out something loud in
him. Piers had been smart to put on the stereo. The Stick hit his arse again.
"Three!" He couldn't believe he had asked for this.
The punishment continued, the Stick hitting his arse at irregular intervals,
but never so quickly as to let them blend into one another. Dudley felt the
stripes emerging as parallel lines on his bottom. As he cried "Six!" he
realised that there was something satisfying about getting the punishment he
deserved. This is what he had been hoping for: correction for the times he had
been stupid, careless, or mean. This is what he deserved for all the years he'd
been an arsehole and the bogeyman for so many kids.
"Seven!" he called, and moaned as he felt his cock twitch. His face, already
red and sweating, felt like it was heating up even more.
Piers paused, and Dudley froze, worried that his Teacher had noticed his new
physical response. But it was just a pause for consideration, it seemed, as
Piers then let the stick fall along the outside of each thigh ("Eight! Nine!").
He stepped back.
"Sir?" Dudley asked.
"The ladder on your arse is quite the sight, Dudley," Piers remarked, admiring
his own work. Dudley continued to pant. "Now go on and catch your breath. You
have six stripes to go."
As soon as Dudley had calmed himself, he heard the whoosh of the Stick again,
and another stripe landed on the outside of his left thigh. "Ten!"
"Eleven," he whimpered as the next strike hit, and closed his eyes as his cock
renewed its interest. He was starting to feel frustrated; it was embarrassing
enough to be beaten for his schoolboy transgressions, but to be turned on by
the punishment and unable to relieve the sexual tension in his groin was beyond
embarrassing. It was humiliating.
"Twelve," Dudley moaned, hearing Piers hum behind him. Dudley hoped that his
Teacher was pleased by his submission, his willingness to learn.
"Thirteen!" he cried out as his hips started to pump back and forth
involuntarily. "Please, sir!"
"Please, what?" Piers murmured from behind him.
"Please... please!" Dudley felt the words escape his lips, and was just
grateful that he hadn't said something about his stiffie.
He heard Piers chuckle darkly. "Harder, eh?" he said, right before putting all
his strength into the last two smacks.
"Fourteen! Ahhh -- Fifteen!" Dudley could barely hold himself up, breathing
heavily, fighting to keep his tears of humiliation and pain back. He felt
hands, one cool, one warm, feeling -- was that caressing? -- the pattern of the
bumpy stripes, the ladder, on his bum. This made his cock fill even more, and
looking to where it curled under his shirt, he could see a spot of moisture on
the fabric.
"That was fifteen. Next time, expect more unless your behaviour has improved
quite a bit,," Piers commented.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," whimpered Dudley.
"Your arse looks grand, by the way. I did a good job creating that ladder. Even
if the stripes aren't really straight -- the Smeltings Stick leaves the ladder
a bit bumpy, you see."
"I know, sir," Dudley replied after drawing a deep, centring breath.
"I bet you'd love to see it, or at least feel it, wouldn't you, Dud?"
"Yes, sir," Dudley breathed.
"That's not something you deserve, though. Pull up your trousers, and do not
pull them down to see the effect of your punishment until you are getting ready
for bed."
Damn. There went the idea of jerking off as soon as he got home.
"I'll see you here at the same time next week," were the last words Piers said
to him as he placed the Smeltings Stick and notebook on the floor beside
Dudley's belt.
===============================================================================
Piers turned from Dudley, sat at his desk, and pretended to ignore his
"student" as the boy re-dressed himself and gathered his notebook and Smeltings
Stick. Piers just waved him out the door; he needed this exit to be quick.
He turned down the stereo as he listened to Dudley descend the stairs and
stammer an apology to his mum. Good, he didn't forget. Not that Piers would
have minded Dudley starting to earn his next demerits right away. This beating
had been oddly satisfying, and he had definitely noticed Dudley's arousal. It
would have been obvious from his moans even if he weren't sporting a nice
little erection.
I need to look at some porn that shows beatings, he thought, considering where
he wanted to take this. And also maybe look at some books....
As soon as he was sure Dudley was gone and that his mother had gone off
elsewhere in the house, Piers pulled down his own trousers and pants. He took
his cock in his left hand and used his right to smear pre-come around the head
as he started to masturbate.
===============================================================================
 
Monday, August 23, 1995
A whole week. A whole week Dudley had had to wait for his next ‘correction
session,’ and here he was, already on tenterhooks as he walked down Magnolia
Crescent to Pansy Lane. He knew he was in for it today, and that he deserved
it, too. I reckon that it's harder to have to wait for my stripes than it would
be to receive them right away.
He'd had this week both to think about his reactions to his first discipline
session with Piers and to think about how he would be punished for any further
infractions. He was still trying to understand why submission -- he couldn't
call it anything else -- to his Teacher and his punishments felt so good. Was
it the purging of his sins that turned him on? His soul so ruined that any
cleansing ritual would lead to the dirtiness of unnatural arousal?
Worse still, he was finding himself distracted whenever Piers was near. He kept
thinking about how Piers knew he was trying not to be an arsehole, and how
Piers also knew that Dudley not only needed but wanted to be beaten hard. When
he saw his Master Teacher, even when they were with the rest of the gang (which
were, actually, the only times they saw each other these days), his face turned
pink with the memory of how desperate he had felt by the end of their session.
He'd been desperate to be hit more and hard, but also desperate to be
comforted, and desperate to be touched, to have the ache of his swollen cock
relieved.
He found himself thinking of Piers and his discipline when he was wanking. He
even thought of the ladder of bruises he'd found on his bottom when he'd
checked the night of his discipline. He remembered how he got them; he pressed
on them as he fisted his cock at night or in the shower.
He'd always thought he liked girls. And he did. When he thought about it, there
was no way he was attracted to Piers. Piers was skinny, and somewhat greasy,
and foul-tempered, and not at all what he thought he should like. There was
nothing about him that was soft. He looked like a rat, all pointy and squinty,
lips always clutched together disdainfully, and his voice was kind of nasal,
besides.
But seeing him, hearing him, knowing that he knew... all of these triggered a
reaction in Dudley. Piers held some power over him, and it turned off Dudley's
ability to think straight. He craved his Teacher's punishments, and in the
deepest parts of his libido hoped for his Teacher's sexual favour.
That wasn't bloody likely this week, though. On Saturday at the play park,
hanging quietly in the back while the other boys taunted a ten-year-old, Dudley
had started to stress about the way he was...abetting the mistreatment of a
child. Never mind that a month ago he would have gladly taken part in such
mistreatment; now that he was living on the straight-and-narrow, it seemed
important to either stop the other boys or take care of the snotty-nosed kid.
So he had backed off even more, and when the gang lost interest and the kid
started to run away, Dudley tore after him to, well, ‘treat children with
kindness.’ Stupid rules. Especially since the brat had seen him and run even
faster. Dudley vaguely remembered giving the kid a bloody nose the summer
before. But the running made it harder to be kind to the snot-nose.
And of course, when he returned to the play park, the gang, but especially
Piers, had needled him and mocked him until he snapped.
So no, Dudley was not expecting today's session to be much fun. But screwing up
his courage, he climbed the steps to Number Eleven, Pansy Lane, and rang the
doorbell.
This time, Piers answered.
===============================================================================
He gazed briefly at his student before saying, "Come," and turned his back on
Dudley as he headed toward the stairs. Piers was in no mood today, despite his
plan for Dudley's punishment; he was still peeved about the specific insult the
other boy had hurled at him two days prior.
Piers rolled his eyes, hearing Dudley drag his feet as he climbed the stairs.
Sure, it was better than stomping, but it still wasn't dignified, and Piers was
still looking for more reasons to correct his behaviour. He did not look back
as he turned and walked into his room, swinging the door open wide enough that
Dudley could catch it before it shut.
"In the centre of the carpet, and hand over the stick and your book," Piers
ordered.
"Yes, sir," Dudley said as he moved to the middle of the room and held out the
requested items.
"Did I ask you a question? You will not speak today unless asked a direct
question, understand?"
"I understand, sir," said Dudley, visibly trembling, his eyes starting to
shine.
"You better. You've got yourself into big trouble, young man. But before we
address that, I need to read what else your delinquent arse has got up to in
the past week."
Dudley remained silent.
"Let's see. Three instances of forgetting to put the serviette on your lap at
mealtime. Six instances of 'not treating children with kindness.' Explain."
"The gang," Dudley muttered. "When the gang was picking on a kid, I never
protected or comforted him. If I were being kind, I would have done something."
Piers glanced over his shoulder, surprised at how seriously Dudley was taking
the rules. "Indeed, you would have. But in a way that did not disrespect your
superiors." Dudley examined his trainers. "Have you done better since?" Piers
asked.
"Yes, sir. I have tried to be actually kind to children and women."
"Good. Now, what's this about lying to your mother?"
"She asked me if I had eaten the pudding in the refrigerator, and I said no."
"Did you blame somebody else?"
"No, but if it wasn't me, it would have to be my dad. But she wouldn't ask
him."
"So you lied to your mother, and caused blame for stealing pudding to fall on
your father."
Dudley grimaced.
"Answer me."
"Yes, sir. I stole, lied, and blamed my dad," Dudley confessed.
"You do realise you'll be getting two strokes each for those; disrespecting
your parents, lying, and -- what does the Bible call it? -- bearing false
witness against your father are very serious offences"
Dudley, not having been asked a question, looked at the floor again.
"Look at me," Piers said calmly. Dudley looked up. "Now for the questions. Did
you manage to acquire and read An Etiquette Manual for Men?”
"Yes, sir."
"Do you understand it?"
"I think so, sir."
"Be sure to come to me for clarification if you need it. Have you been helpful
to your parents and other adults?"
"Yes, sir. I have been setting and clearing the table for Mum, and pushing the
lawnmower for Dad. I also offered to feed Mrs. Figg's cats when she needed to
go visit a sick relative last week."
"How long was she gone?"
"Er. Just the afternoon and evening; she found me the next day and said that it
was all sorted and she'd come home early."
"Good enough. Have you consistently groomed yourself as befits a young
gentleman of society?" Piers asked, glaring at Dudley's trainers.
"N-no, sir. I suppose not. I have been wearing my trainers, as well as jerseys
sometimes."
"How many times for each?"
Piers could see Dudley counting in his head. "Four days in jerseys, sir, and
five days in trainers."
"So you have spent more time dressed inappropriately than dressed well."
Dudley cast his eyes downward again.
"Well, those total twenty-four. Plus, I caught you dragging your feet rather
than walking proudly as you entered my home. Not to mention how you cheeked me
in front of others, using vulgarities that have likely never been heard in this
town before."
"But Teacher--"
"Are you talking back?"
"No, sir. I was trying to explain, sir. You needled me, and I just... I just
couldn't take it any more. I exploded. I'm sorry, sir."
Piers paused thoughtfully. "You know, you just broke two rules while confessing
to breaking another. Do you remember what you said when you became frustrated?"
"Yes, sir."
"Repeat it for me. Now."
"I called you a motherfucking-son-of-a-cockweasel, sir," Dudley croaked.
"And what are you supposed to do when you become that frustrated?"
"I am supposed to excuse myself and leave the group so I can calm down, then
apologise upon returning."
"So you know the rules, you just failed to follow them."
Dudley nodded, his cheeks flushed with his failure and eyes watering with what
Piers hoped was a mixture of fear and self-disappointment.
"So here it is. The demerits you had accumulated before we started talking
about this incident were twenty-five. I am adding one each for trying to get
out of your punishment by explanation, and not leaving a situation that was
pissing you off. I am adding two for your use of foul language directed at
another person, as creative as it was. That's twenty-nine demerits. Granted,
that is much less than what you earned in your first few days, which means
you're getting better. But your mistakes -- your wilful errors -- have been
colossal. I had planned on giving you half as many strokes of the Stick as you
had demerits, but I don't think fourteen -- even fewer than last time -- or
even fifteen is enough for a delinquent like you. So I will beat your bottom
twenty times -- three-quarters of what you deserve. Do you have anything to say
to that?"
"Sir, what about the consequence for cheeking you?" Dudley asked, looking for
all the world like he would cry.
"That, Dursley, we will deal with after I tend to your arse. But while I beat
you, I want you to think about what the consequence was the last time someone
cheeked me," Piers said, sneering.
"Now. Trousers and pants down, and get on the floor."
===============================================================================
Twenty stripes, such as they are, thought Dudley, thinking of the bumpy bruises
from the previous week.. I guess I'll have to count again –"
Smack! "One, sir," Dudley gasped, taken by surprise from his thoughts. He heard
the whoosh again. "Two! Sir."
At the third stroke, Dudley was already getting hard, and tried to think about
what the rest of his punishment might be. But --whack! "Four, sir!" -- he kept
getting distracted by the sound of his Smeltings Stick cutting through the air,
and the penetrating thuds on his bottom. He had to focus on counting. He didn't
know what would happen if he missed a count, but he was sure it wouldn't be
good.
Whack! "N-Nine," Dudley moaned, feeling his cock throb. How could he be finding
this, this abuse to be so sexy?
The tenth was particularly hard, and Dudley felt his cock swing forward,
smacking him in the belly. "Oh, ten, sir," he said. At this point, he knew he
had no chance of concealing his arousal from his Teacher.
"We're going to take a little break, Big D," said Piers, mockingly. "Give your
sweet arse a chance to cool off a bit before I do the second half."
"Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"How are you feeling? No lying, remember?"
"S-sir, I --" But Dudley couldn't find words. He felt the blood throbbing in
his arse and his cock, but words were beyond him. "I don't know, sir," he
finally managed.
"You don't know?"
"I, I can't think, sir. I'm sorry." Dudley was breathing in shudders, unsure if
it was due to the pain, or being cold, or just the adrenaline of the situation.
"Okay, we'll start simple. How does your face feel?"
"My face? Er," Dudley paused to think of what his face was feeling, "it feels
hot, sir. And my eyes sting, a-and it aches on my temples and under my eyes."
Dudley took a shuddering breath. "And my mouth is dry, and I haven't been
breathing good."
"Okay, Dudley. Take a few deep breaths." Still on all fours, Dudley felt Piers'
eyes on him. He breathed in, counting One, two, three, and then out four, five,
six. Knowing that his breathing was evening out but still needed help, he
repeated the pattern twice more.
And realised what the consequence for cheeking Piers would be.
"Now, Big D. Tell me how your bottom is feeling."
Dudley thought. "It's sore, sir, and warm. A little tingly, but not too much."
Piers grunted his approval. "And your cock? How is that?"
"Sir?" Dudley said, shocked to be asked the question, not sure whether he
wanted to answer, to humiliate himself by confessing his reaction to the
beating.
"Your cock. I can tell that it's filled. Tell me how it feels." Piers walked
around to stand in front of him, and pulled his chin up so that Dud was forced
to look into his glinting eyes.
Dudley gulped. "It -- it's very full, sir. For a bit, it was throbbing hard in
time to the throbbing of my arse, but both are throbbing a lot less now. It's
not as excited as it was a minute ago, but it, er, hit my belly when you hit
me. I can feel the bit of wetness from the tip on my belly. My cock feels hot,
and heavy." His chin was still in Piers' hands, so he was forced to say all
this while looking at his Teacher, whose eyes darkened, and lids started to
fall. Since he had to look past Piers' cock to see his face, Dudley couldn't
help but notice the bulge in his friend's denims. Dear God, I'm turning him on!
"Good answer," said Piers in a low voice. "I suppose you want to touch it?"
"Sir!" said Dudley, surprised. "Teacher, I would very much like to touch it. It
would feel so good..." When Piers paused, Dudley’s stomach sank. He thought
back to an American movie his Mum had shown him when he was little. In the
movie, the rabbit had said that he couldn't possibly go into the briar patch,
so the fox made him go. It had turned out that the rabbit was tricking the fox,
as he'd grown up in a briar patch. That was a trap, wasn't it? I should have
said ‘Oh no, Br'er Fox, don't make me toss one off! It's so dissatisfying!’
Dudley had made the mistake of admitting exactly what he wanted, and giving
Piers the opportunity to mock him - or worse.
Dudley was right. "You would like to wank, you dirty rule-breaker. Do you think
you deserve to wank? Do you deserve to come today?"
"No, sir, but please." Dud heard a sharp intake of breath at his plea.
"Well, well. We'll have to see how you take the rest of your punishment, won't
we? Because so far, you don't deserve to come at all." Piers walked around
Dudley again, and Dudley heard the drag of his Smeltings Stick along the carpet
as his Teacher picked it up. And then the dreaded whoosh.
Smack! "Eleven, sir!"
The rest of his beating went by in a blur, with Dudley aware only of the
increasing throbs on his arse and between his legs, but trying to remember.
There was something; something he would have to do when the strikes were done,
something that was supposed to make him -- Smack! "Sixteen, sir!" he cried in
desperation, having lost his train of thought again.
===============================================================================
Piers had been growing harder and harder as his punishment of Dudley went on.
He'd known he liked hitting people, but had never had it fuse with power in
quite this way before -- never had someone just take it, willingly. It was
hotter than he had ever imagined. And the thought of breaking Big D so bad that
he would cry and be willing to suck his Teacher off, well, that kept Piers'
cock straining against his briefs and denims.
Because Dudley would suck him. And he'd had this whole punishment to think
about it. And, Piers noticed, the prospect hadn't seem to diminish the boy's
excitement at all.
Well, if he remembers, conceded Piers, acknowledging that the couple of books
he'd looked at in the porno shop had mentioned that for a "bottom," which is
what the books said Dudley was acting as, it was often impossible to do
anything but stay in the very moment. Which was one of the reasons for the
"break." To give Dudley time to reflect, and also to make sure that he was safe
-- someone that big could easily lose his breath or strain his heart, Piers
thought. This train is too sweet to crash. I bet Dud never thought these
activities would stimulate anything but his good behaviour. But I can tell that
he finds it exciting. Hell, he'd evensaidthat he wanted to wank.
Piers drew back his arm, intending for these last three to be the hardest:
Smack!
"Eigh-" Dudley sobbed, "Eighteen, sir!"
"Are you crying, boy?"
His student sniffed. "Y-yes, sir, I-I'm sorry, sir."
"I shouldn't have expected you to take it well; you're great at boxing and
punching, but always turned into a wibbling baby when you got hit yourself."
Dudley sniffed louder. Piers drew back again, the last two whoosh-smack!
rhythms getting him even closer to the edge. "And, I think, one for good luck,"
he said before giving Dudley the hardest strike of all. He watched as a wide,
deep, bumpy line turned translucent white in contrast to the pink-arse-with-
red-lines around it.
"TWENTY-ONE!" screamed Dudley.
"Lovely," Piers said. "Now get on your knees and face me."
As Dudley turned around, Piers took in the sight of the solid young man: face
red, nose puffy, tear-tracks running down his cheeks. The boy wasn't quite
gasping for breath, but his inhalations were sharp. A bit of his stomach
glistened, and his cock stood proudly.
Piers couldn't wait.
===============================================================================
Piers was looking at him with... was it awe? Mixed with hunger. Dudley was
still a little light-headed from the beating, was still shuddering with each
breath. While one extra smack wasn't a lot after holding through twenty, that
last one was just the limit. He couldn't take any more. He was almost outside
of himself, he felt emptied of his personality, of every mean thought. Piers
was his lifeline, his connection to reality. Or was he? Dudley couldn't quite
tell what reality was supposed to be, but he knew that Piers and the Smeltings
Stick were the only realities that mattered any more
The knowledge that he was going to have to pleasure Piers was comforting, now.
He could become useful, not the waste of space he suspected himself of being.
"Dudley," Piers said softly. "Look at me."
Dudley looked.
"Do you remember what the consequence was when Mulrooney cheeked me?"
"Y-yes, sir. I remember."
"Tell me what it is that those who cheek this Teacher have to do to make it
up."
"Boys who cheek you have to suck your cock, Teacher."
"Correct," Piers confirmed. "I must say, I've been looking forward to this
since Saturday. Tell me, Dudley, have you been looking forward to it?"
"O-only for the last ten strokes, sir," Dudley confessed.
"Mm? And why is that?"
"Because I hadn't thought you would punish me that way until you said so right
before beating me, and then I couldn't concentrate on remembering until you
gave me a break, sir."
"And why did you start looking forward to it, Dudley?"
"Because...because I want to do something good for you after being so bad,"
Dudley whispered.
"Oh, Big D. That is the right answer, you know." Piers' voice was suspiciously
soft.
"Thank you, Teacher."
"You're welcome. Now for this, I want you to remain kneeling. Hands behind your
back for the moment."
Dudley put his hands behind his back, feeling the bottom of his jersey skimming
the almost-raw stripes.
Piers unbuckled his own belt, unbuttoned the front of his denims, and slowly
pulled down the zip before (just as slowly) pushing his denims and too-tight
briefs down. He snorted as he pulled at the front of his briefs in order to get
them around his cock.
"Do you like what you see, Dudley?"
"I.. I don't know, sir. But I want to do something that's good for you. Please,
sir. Let me take care of your cock," Dudley said, not sure whether he was
saying something according to some weird script that was running their
interaction, or whether he really wanted to blow Piers. But Piers smiled
slowly, which made Dudley think he'd got the right answer.
Sitting on his desk chair, Piers said, "Kneel right in front of me," so Dudley
moved the half-metre or so closer. "Good boy. Now open your mouth."
Dudley opened his mouth. His Teacher took hold of his own cock and used it to
smear his own pre-come onto Dudley's cheeks. Dudley inhaled through his nose,
taking in the full aroma of Piers' cock for the first time.
And then the tip of that cock entered his mouth.
"Close your mouth around the head, Dudley, and suck."
Dudley did so, placing his lips just past the ridge on the crown of Piers'
cock, sucking gently, then harder.
"Good," gasped Piers. He seemed to take a second or two to regain control of
his speech. "Now use your tongue to swirl around the head."
Dudley did so, sticking his tongue into Piers' slit to taste the slightly
bitter, but round-tasting liquid behind it. But bitter should taste sharp,
shouldn't it? he thought absently as he returned to circling the head with his
tongue.
"Dudley, you can use your hands to hold my cock in place, or to play with my
bollocks. Suck and lick me, and be creative. Just make me feel good," Piers
said, and Dudley felt his Teacher's hands slide into his hair.
===============================================================================
It was like every wet dream come true for Piers.
He had total control of the only bloke his age who could give him a run for his
money, the boy his Mum referred to as his "best mate," and this mate's lips and
tongue were wrapped around his cock. Piers had gotten enormously worked up
during Dudley's beating, and felt himself throbbing and twitching in the other
boy's mouth. Dudley was doing his best to suck most of the time, it seemed.
But once in awhile, he would do something inspired, like press a finger behind
Piers' sack and massage it, or suck while twirling his tongue around the head.
Sometimes, Dudley even combined one of those with remembering to stroke the
base of Piers' cock, which he did in a slow, tight, screw-like motion.
Talent! thought Piers. Who knew he would have suchtalent?
And then, holding his student's (he liked thinking of Dudley as his student)
head in place by the hair, he thrust a little more into his mouth, and Dudley's
teeth closed on his shaft.
"Ouch, you little fucker!" he screamed, pulling Dudley off his cock by the
hair. "You fucking bit me!"
Dudley looked up at him, the tears starting to run down his face again. "I'm so
sorry, Teacher. Really. I didn't mean to hurt you. I will try to be more
careful, and less easy to surprise--"
"You're damn right, you will," Piers snapped. "But before you finish that job,
you've earned yourself five more strikes of the Stick!"
Dudley only cried harder.
===============================================================================
He couldn't believe that he'd messed up like that. Piers had every right to be
furious. Not only was Dudley a failure as a gentleman, but he was a failure as
a cocksucker. He was as low as a bloke could get. But still, more strokes? How
was he going to survive more strokes from his Smeltings Stick? That fucker was
big, and hard, and... his cock took an interest again. I really am sick, he
thought.
He got back on his hands and knees without being asked, and waited for the
blows to commence.
Whoosh-Smack! Which they did. "One!" Dudley cried.
He took the other four smacks with stoicism in his heart, though he continued
to sob. He knew he was bad, he knew he was a sorry excuse for a proper young
man, and that he was truly inadequate in all respects. His heart was calm
because he knew he deserved this punishment, even more than he had deserved the
others. As he felt and counted the fifth stroke, he sobbed one more time,
before letting his arms collapse in front of him, and lying with his arse in
the air and his head on his forearms.
And yet, as guilty and humbled as he was, his cock was hard from this
absolution.
===============================================================================
Piers regarded the boy folded in front of him, sobbing quietly, for a minute.
This is really intense for him, Piers realised. As intense for him as it is for
me. Maybe more intense. Did I fuck up by punishing him just then? I know that I
had to work really hard not to bite Quinn the first time I sucked him off, he
thought, remembering the first boy he had ‘experimented’ with. Who had since
disavowed his homosexuality, crushing Piers. He'd been relieved when his first
"lover" had finally graduated Smeltings...
The throbbing in his cock, the extra pain of having the blood of his erection
throb against where Dudley had bit, brought Piers back to the moment. It made
him remember why he had deemed this beating necessary.
He heard Dudley whimpering, "I'm sorry, sir, I'm so sorry," over and over, and
had a second realisation. He needed to communicate to Dudley that everything
would be alright. The books had said that if a "bottom" had an emotionally
painful experience with a "top," he wouldn't come back. And that would not do.
Piers knelt behind where Dudley was presenting his well-marked arse. He found
himself desperately wanting to take that arse, either with his cock or with the
Smeltings Stick (the idea of the knobbly rod getting sucked in and pushed out
by Dudley's arsehole had become one of his favourite wank fantasies), but
knowing that he needed to get Dudley back on his side, back into a space where
he could continue to submit to Piers' orders and attentions.
"Dudley," he said, careful to keep his voice steady and calm. Dudley stopped
muttering, but continued to sob into his arms, his back shaking and arse
jiggling. Piers reached out, and stroked Dud's bottom lightly, up and down, up
and down. When the distraught boy seemed to be largely calm, Piers tried again.
"Dudley," he repeated, "can you hear me?"
"Yes, sir," Dudley said, speaking into his arms.
"You were good to submit to your beating without complaint. Do you have
anything to say to me now?"
"Yes, sir. I'm very sorry, sir," he said, without raising his head.
"Dudley, I want you to kneel before me and repeat that so I can actually hear
it."
Dudley raised himself up and turned around. He looked at Piers through wet
eyes, and said. "Thank you, sir. I am very sorry that I bit you. It must have
hurt so much, and I feel horrid that I hurt you that way, because I wanted you
to feel good. I'm sorry that I failed. I don't deserve to pleasure you."
"Dudley, I accept your apology. I know you did it by accident. I forgive you."
Dudley seemed startled. "You do?"
"Yes, I do."
Dudley paused for a long moment, then asked, "Sir, may I try again? I will be
extra-careful, and do better this time."
===============================================================================
Dudley felt himself flushing again as Piers regarded him, considering his
request. He could hardly believe himself. Since when had he become a poofter,
wanting to suck cock? Did he really want to suck cock, or did he just want to
succeed instead of fail?
He actually hadn't minded doing it. He liked being able to make Piers react; it
made him feel powerful. And until he'd bitten him, Piers had seemed to be
enjoying his blow job.
"All right, Dud, you may try again. This time, though, try to cover your teeth
with your lips. That way, you won't accidentally bite me again. But the rest of
your effort was well-done, if a bit messy. Like all skills, though, giving a
great blow job just takes practice."
"Thank you, sir," Dudley breathed, amazed that he was being given another
chance, and even help learning how to pleasure his Teacher. He smiled tearfully
at Piers, then let his eyes travel down Piers' face, chest, and belly to the
cock sticking up through a thatch of black curls. The cock had regained most of
the hardness it had lost after Dudley had bitten it, but he could see the
purple imprints from his teeth, and felt guilty again. He knew that he needed
to surpass Piers' wildest expectations to make it up to him.
Dudley decided to start the way Piers had directed him the first time, leaning
forward with his hands behind his back to suck at Piers' cock-head. He then
took his time, pulling off with what was almost a little kiss before pointing
his tongue and sticking it into the slit. He moved his tongue back and forth a
tiny bit as he closed his lips around the corona, and then sucked.
Piers gasped, and grabbed Dudley's hair to hold on.
Good, Dudley thought. I'm doing it right, then.
As he took his next breath through his mouth and licked his lips again, he
brought his right hand out to hold Piers' cock steady, and his left hand to
stroke lightly at his balls.
Slowly, slowly, he started to draw Piers' cock into his mouth. Piers' hands
gripped tighter, and started to pull Dudley's hair towards his crotch, but
Dudley had his teeth behind his lips this time as his tongue snapped down from
its place on his Teacher's cock-head, and did not bite. Nor did he submit to
his friend's (were they friends, even now?) cues to suck his penis down
quickly. Dudley drew his tongue along the back of Piers' cock, feeling the
pulsing vein, until the tongue met with his bottom lip.
He sucked hard again, and Piers thrust.
Dudley's hand along the base of Piers' cock meant that Piers didn't have room
to thrust very far, but Dud got the picture, and smiled around Piers' erection.
He drew back, fluttering the tip of his tongue against the slit again, then
sucked as much cock as he could into his mouth. It hit the back of his throat
and he gagged, spitting it out.
"Take it," Piers growled. "Take it all."
Dudley nodded eagerly, wanting to do as his Teacher desired, thinking about how
he would suppress his urges to vomit after a fight: a deep, deep breath that
tightened his diaphragm and opened his throat at an angle. He breathed deeply
through his mouth, then through his nose, and began working the purpled cock in
front of him down his mouth and into his throat with a suck-then-spit strategy,
keeping his ears attuned to Piers' reactions.
Which seemed positive indeed.
Piers' hips canted as he tried to fuck Dudley's throat harder, and Dudley
groaned around the cock attempting to bury itself in his digestive tract. He
pulled a bit at Piers' bollocks, and loosened his mouth a little as he felt
Piers drawing back. His right hand left Piers' cock to grab onto his hip and
hold on for the ride. The left hand soon followed.
Dudley's throat hurt from being thrust against repeatedly, but he relished the
idea that he was making up for his earlier mistake by taking it from his
Teacher. Piers started to tremble, and pistoned in-and-out, trying to get
deeper with each thrust. He groaned mightily and stiffened; as the first spurt
of semen splashed on Dudley's tongue, Piers pulled the rest of the way out and
let the spunk fall on Dud's face.
Dudley, for his part, soon rested his head against the other boy's skinny,
hairy leg as he tried to catch his breath. Knowing he was out of order, he
shrank back when Piers tapped his foot.
He sat his sore arse on his heels, and looked up at his Teacher, who was also
breathing heavily and gazing at him with shock written across his features.
"Dudley," Piers said, "you are a very, very good little cocksucker. So good
that I think you do get to come after all."
Dudley felt his bits tingle in anticipation.
===============================================================================
Thursday, 26 August, 1995
"Duddlebuns, what are you doing, holed up in your room on a sunny day like
this?" Petunia Dursley asked through the door of her son's room.
"Come in, please, Mum," Dudley replied.
Mrs Dursley entered, her eyes widening as she took in the scene: Dudley sitting
at his desk with a schoolbook open, notebook and Biro showing that he had been
writing. But that was not all. Dudley had to restrain himself from smirking as
he watched his mother scan the room.
His bed was made, his dirty clothes in his hamper, his toys and games put away.
Dudley's shoes were even lined up under his bed.
"Dudley...?" Mrs Dursley asked weakly. "What have you been doing?"
Dudley smiled. "I decided it was time to grow up a bit. Treat my things as the
gifts they are from you and Dad, try to help more around the house, do my
summer homework well, for once. I want to be someone who deserves to have you
be proud of him."
"But Duddy, we've always been proud of you."
"I know, Mum, but I haven't been an angel. So I am trying to do better. Piers
has been helping me."
"You..." Mrs Dursley took a sharp breath before rushing at her son, arms open
wide. "Oh, Dudley!"
===============================================================================
Friday, 27 August, 1995
The trouble is, Dudley thought glumly as he raked the early leaf-fall from the
front walk, that I have actually managed to make acting like a decent bloke
normal in the mere two weeks I've been following Piers' instructions.
His plan seemed to have worked, but he was discontent. Damn. I can't believe
I've let my correction sessions with Piers get under my skin like this. Because
he had. He'd barely scribbled anything in his notebook over the last four days,
having had the concept of courtesy drilled into his head by the combination of
writing, hearing, and being beaten for his transgressions.
As he put away the rake and carried the sack of leaves to the side of Number
Four, Privet Drive, he considered his situation: He could recite Piers' rules
for him, even if not in order. He was following them out of habit. Did all this
mean he was already the perfect gentleman?
He stuck a glass under the tap in the kitchen sink and drew himself a glassful.
But Perfect Gentlemen don't get beaten. And they certainly don't suck cock, or
want to get beaten, or fantasise about other men. He walked up the stairs to
his room and opened the door, careful not to spill his water. Those things
aren't against Piers' rules, though.
As he placed his glass on the desk so he could change into something a bit less
dirty, he saw his copy of An Etiquette Manual for Men lying on the other side
of the desk, underneath his Composition textbook.
And Dudley had the solution.
===============================================================================
Monday, 30 August, 1995
Dudley was in his customary position in the centre of the rug as Piers read his
log entries.
"Dudley? What's going on here? What are all these noted infractions? I
certainly did not expect you to wear a tie to every meal."
"Sir, the Etiquette Manual was written in 1923. I was re-reading it the other
day, and realised that I had skipped the rules I'd thought were too old-
fashioned. So I added them to the list of rules I have to follow."
Piers raised an eyebrow. Interesting. "Really," he drawled. "I don't suppose
you know how many demerits you've earned, do you?"
Blushing and hanging his head slightly, Dudley answered. "Sixty-two."
"And how many strikes are you expecting for that?"
"Er... However many you think is appropriate, sir."
"Hmm. I think that when you added offences to your correction list, you must
have expected that you would earn a smack for each of them. So that is what you
will get. Trousers and pants off, and lie across my lap, here."
"S-sir?"
"Oh, did I not mention? I'll be applying the first half of your punishment by
hand." In his mind, Piers was nearly dancing in celebration. Warm, naked male
flesh would be pressed against him! He fished for a reason to remove his own
trousers and pants, but could not come up with a reason that would seem
plausible, even in this charade.
Because Dudley wanted this so much, he went out of his way to make it possible,
he thought, remembering how Dud's blush the week before had started with a
pinkening of the chest, which travelled, spreading and darkening, up through
his neck and face until it reached his deepest red ear-tops. I shall need to
make him wank for me again.
Both boys were already growing hard as Dudley settled on Piers' lap and Piers
drew his hand back for the first spank.
===============================================================================
Getting spanked with Piers' hand was nothing like getting whacked with the
Smeltings Stick. Not only was Dudley aware that his every twitch and jerk were
felt by his Teacher, but he could feel the reaction punishing Dudley caused.
Piers had started out a little hard, but by the tenth smack his cock was
bulging through his trousers and pressing into the lower part of Dudley's gut.
Not to mention that after Dudley hadn't been able to keep his count up to the
speed of the smacks, Piers had said that he did not have to count at all, and
started hitting him faster. There was no time to recover between them, and
Dudley felt himself starting to float already.
He was also starting to rock back and forth, trying to get some more friction
and pressure on his own cock, even though the rough grain of Piers' trousers
was not a pleasant rubbing surface.
Piers noticed, lifted his hand and leaned down. "Don't move," he growled, and
did not resume the spanking until Dudley had stilled.
And then it was over, and Piers made him get off his lap and get back down on
all fours. Dud felt as though his face, his bottom, his whole body were on
fire. He struggled to control his breathing, aware that Piers was watching and
waiting for him to calm down before continuing with the punishment.
===============================================================================
Feeling Dudley squirm and try to rub himself off on his lap had nearly caused
Piers to lose his self-control and start to thrust back. He remembered,
however, that this was supposed to be for ‘punishment,’ rather than for the
gratification of either of them, and made Dudley stop.
When Dudley got on his hands and knees, the delinquent boy wasn't the only one
who needed to calm himself by breathing. Piers, too, was nearly overcome with
lust. And yet, he knew that he was only half-done.
"Dudley. Are you ready yet?" he asked.
"Yes, sir." Dudley was nearly moaning, and it was all Piers could do not to
just walk around and shove his hard cock into the other boy's mouth.
But he didn't. He was still in charge of himself as well as of Dudley. "Good.
Start counting again. You've had thirty-one spankings so far." And he let loose
with the first smack.
"Thirty-two-sir!" Dudley cried in a staccato rhythm that reminded Piers of the
films he'd seen of military training in the States.
The cries gradually acquired a tone of pleading, and then of sobbing, with
gasps between each word. After he had struck Dudley with the Smeltings Stick
fifteen times, Piers paused, shaking out his arm.
"All right there, Dud?" he asked.
"Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Dudley shuddered. Piers eyed him carefully and
nodded. The bruises on Dud's arse were already darker than they had been in
past weeks due to the spanking he'd received first, but the satisfaction of
seeing a white, knobbly line fade into a deep red one was not withheld from
him. This was one of the loveliest sights Piers had ever seen. It was like art,
like a painting he had made on Dudley's white bottom, and Piers was proud of
it. Likewise, he was proud of his ‘student's’ performance; he had certainly
shown great stamina thus far, even as he sobbed or wept.
"Good, then." And Piers let him have the last sixteen stripes of the summer.
===============================================================================
As he counted the last few smacks to his arse ("Fifty-eight, sir!" Whoosh-
smack! "Fifty-nine, sir!") Dudley's emotions started to get the better of him,
and he could barely choke out the count. He was harder than he'd ever been, he
thought, and he wanted to please Piers, and he knew it was coming to an end,
this beating and this relationship of student and Teacher.
The Stick seemed to whistle through the air as it came in for the last strike.
"SIXTY-TWO!" Dudley screamed. "Thank you, sir!"
And Dudley collapsed onto his arms as he had the previous week, sobbing and
shaking. He heard Piers calling his name as if from a distance, but he could
barely breathe, let alone speak. He was ashamed of his tears, yes, but even
more ashamed of his desire. He wanted Piers to keep control of him, to hurt him
when he was bad, to allow him rewards when he was good. He didn't want their
arrangement to end just because of school; in fact, he found himself wanting
more out of it than he had imagined himself capable of wanting.
He was so confused...though he was pretty clear by now that he did have a
sexual interest in his friend.
Dudley became aware that Piers was kneeling beside him, stroking his hair. He
leant into the touch. "Thank you, sir," he whispered.
"You're welcome, Dudley. You took that very well. I'll miss having your arse to
mark."
"You will, sir?"
"Oh, yes."
===============================================================================
Dudley's voice was almost unintelligibly quiet. "I'll miss it, too, sir."
This doesn't have to end for good, Piers realised. He had fantasised about how
they might continue their little game, but not dared to think it possible. But
now....
"Would you like to continue this, even while you are at Smeltings, Dudley?"
Dudley looked up, a somewhat shocked expression on his face. "Sir?"
"I said, would you like to continue this -- this arrangement -- while you are
at school this term?" Piers repeated.
Dudley closed his eyes, inhaling. "Yes, sir, I would like that a lot. But how--
"
Piers cut him off. "I'll explain. But I believe that we both deserve a reward
right now. Sit on your heels, facing me," he said, and then mirrored the action
he'd instructed Dudley to take.
Piers then undid the zip in his trousers, and pulled his cock above the
waistband of his pants. He saw Dudley's eyes widen.
"We are going to wank ourselves while I tell you how it will be during the
term." And just as slowly as he wanked, Piers began to outline the plan.
He watched Dudley follow his pacing. This was going to be good.
===============================================================================
The sun was setting as Dudley left Number Eleven, Pansy Lane. He felt sated,
and giddy, and terrified. He had admitted to Piers that he wanted what Piers
had been doing to him, for him, and had agreed to continue it.
He wondered how he would manage to find a new swot to help him at Smeltings
this year.
He wondered how he would resist blushing when he saw Piers -- and Malcolm and
Gordon -- the next day for their last afternoon together before term.
But most of all, he wondered what sort of responses and instructions he would
receive from Piers after he had sent his Notebook List by post every week, and
how it would go for them when the Christmas hols rolled around.
His mind flew to the bruises on his bottom, and he hoped that whatever Piers'
corrections were, they would prove as...effective as the Smeltings Stick.


                                     ~Fin~

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